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adieu, Blue/ repost of 1&2 of dusty WIP
Blue went off to the vet today, and thence to a hopefully wonderful life in Kansas City. I stayed with him and got the results for all his tests -- he's perfectly healthy. Got weepy a couple of times yesterday from wimpitude/worry -- and because despite all my efforts at detachment I ended up bonding with the poor creature -- but I have every reason to expect a good outcome.
Just in case, I wrote my contact info and stuck it on the carrier (twice, I'm nothing if not spazzy :) with the request to call me if anything went wrong with placement. I did manage to round up two possible adopters at a party last night, and today the roof guy mentioned he might be interested, too. So I have plans B, C, and D, if it comes to that.
Reposting the first two chapters of Clustering Round Young Buffy, because I didn't put it in memories the first time, and can't figre how to do it from an archived post. I need to stop being so lazy -- it's a hassle. Working on ch. 3.
This is a weightless story, I know, but I've been unable to write for a while -- got all hung up on needing stuff to be perfect and meaningful and jazz. Which cut my output down to zero, of course. So I thought I'd try to relax and, you know, not take fanfic so horribly seriously. Thanks for your patience with this foolish thing.
*****
Clustering Round Young Buffy
Giles, Spike, Angel
Post NFA, sequel to A Proper Funeral
*****
If some charitable soul had taken me aside just prior to my spasm of heroic volunteerism in Hell, by which means I delivered Spike and Angel from eternal chokey, and told me I'd rue and repent of it with bitter sorrow, I'd have laughed. I'd have snapped my fingers, shot my cuffs, and uttered a devil-may-care "Oh, really?" because that's what we Gileses do when facing the ultimate sacrifice. House Giles is constructed of famously sturdy planking, and I am by no means the least of its sons, though I say it myself. When faced with an opportunity to do a good turn by a pal, steel cables can't hold a Giles back. We leap. We bound. We tarry not to count the cost. It's just the way we are.
And a jolly stupid trait it is, too. It's all very well to get a couple of bumbling souled vampires off a hook of their own idiotic making, if you can do it without a great deal of paperwork, but signing on for an unending spell as a supernatural babysitter isn't something I can recommend. The fascination passes, so to speak. The sameness begins to wear. One misses the old mortality, the bustle of daily life, doorbells and sleighbells and whiskers on kittens. I was exiled from these simple joys, and as the long summer turned to autumn in the world above, I was feeling the strain of my noble gesture. Footling about in a whacking great hollow tree staring at coffins is no Mardi Gras, I can tell you, and the certain knowledge that kings and kingdoms would all pass away and I'd still be stuck in a hole in the ground doing it had me feeling distinctly blue.
"This weakness is unworthy," observed Illyria, bobbing up at the nine o'clock postion as welcome as ever, which was not very. "And perilous. Embrace your immortality with fortitude, stripling."
"Later, perhaps," I sighed.
"I have seen too many newborn gods go mad. Do not force me to discipline you."
"Madam," I inquired testily, "Haven't you somewhere to be?"
"The half breeds are overdue. I miss the diversion they provide with their incessant squabbling."
"It's good that you can," I observed, listlessly toeing a pebble into the abyss.
"Open your senses," counseled Illyria. "Reach out with your strength. Feel the pulse of the lesser forms teeming in the soil, in the air, in the seas. Let the flare of their brief lives and sufferings refresh you. Rise into the stars and burn with them as is your right, and fill this dim plane with your incandescence."
"I have a smashing idea: why don't you?"
It was an unsporting jab, but I was more than a little cranky.
"I shall, soon enough," glowered Illyria. "Daily my strength waxes. In a moment, as such things are measured, I shall return to my true stature. And then, let the universe tremble!"
"Yes, yes, to be sure."
"Do not try me," she growled. "I am not so reduced as you think."
A distant scrabbling above informed me that Spike and Angel were without, at the enchanted portal of my liegehold of mystery and darkness, and had once again forgotten their keys.
"They are late," said Illyria. "But they bear honorable wounds."
"Don't they always? Clumsy berks."
"Oi! Sun's coming!" came the faint Spikean cry.
"Giles!" barked Angel.
I waved my hand and the cavernous ceiling split sufficiently to drop two vampires in an untidy tangle at our feet. They failed to bounce, adding gall to my already bitter cup.
"Oof," said Angel.
"Ow," said Spike, after an unsuccessful attempt to rise. "Morning, Majesty. Morning, Your Watcherly Holiness. A little help?"
I gave him a reluctant assist. "Good Lord, Spike. What happened to you this time?"
"Gored."
"Gored?"
"Gored by a mad cow," explained Angel, taking Spike's other arm. "But we stopped a virulent plague, so it's all good."
"And she was delicious," grunted Spike.
"Spike's going to be laid up for a while," said Angel.
"Good show," I said, as we manhandled the bleeder down a side tunnel to the parlor. Illyria stalked and scowled in our wake, which was her way of exhibiting solicitude for injured pets. "Well done, as per your usual, Spike. And now we'll have to chain you up and watch for brain fungus, I suppose."
"Do you think we'll be able to tell?" asked Angel, with the unpredictable wit that so enlivened my days.
"Now, Watcher. Don't go chaining me up again. I can't stand those bleeding chains."
"You should have thought of that first." We dumped Spike next to the ancient hand-crank Victrola, and much tiresome groaning ensued. Angel reached for Spike's crimson shirt. Spike batted his hands away.
"Lemme alone. Ow! Giles, get him off me."
"Shut up. Quit moving." Angel surveyed the damage with a low whistle. "Gotta hand it to you, Spike, when you get your guts torn out by a mad cow, you don't do it half way. Giles, we may need a bit of miraculous healing here."
"No! No miracles!" hissed Spike. "They make my soul burn for a week."
I felt Spike had earned a soul-burning miracle or two, but I was trying to cut down on inflicting my mighty will on subordinates. "I suppose it's needles and fishing line, then."
"Aw, fuck," moaned Spike.
"I shall do it," said Illyria. "Spike welcomes pain at my hands, and his arousal will mitigate the --"
"I say, what happened to the Gidderach Demon?" I asked hastily.
"We kinda had to shelve the Gidderach, Giles, with all the cows going mad." Angel shrugged. "I'll go back and clean up tomorrow night."
Spike began to thrash a bit. "Not without me, you won't. Giles, the ponce is trying to sneak off and stalk Buffy again. Giles!"
"Settle down, sweetie," said Illyria, suddenly brunette and decently clad. She was threading a darning needle under Spike's alarmed gaze and giving him a perky grin. "Hold still, now. This will go faster if you don't fight me."
Spike sighed and shut his eyes. "Right, then. Bash away."
"Unless you want to me to drag it out, like a reward," suggested Illyria.
"Please stop doing Fred, Highness. You're wrecking it for me," complained Spike.
Angel looked suitably revolted. "Giles, can I have a word?"
With no reluctance whatsoever I left Spike and Illyria and joined Angel in the corridor.
"Giles, what do you say to me hitting the Continent, after I take care of the Gidderach?"
I assessed him. "I'd say that Spike has called it, with the perceptivity that occasionally makes me suspect him of intelligence. You have a stalking gleam in your eye. No Buffy, Angel. None."
"It's got nothing to do with Buffy. Much."
"The word is no, Angel. We all have an agreement here, and have sworn the oaths of gentlemen. Buffy lives her life now, free of all unnecessary complications and care, and we sod about in magic trees. That's the way of it."
"I'm worried, Giles. Wesley said she's looking pale."
"Everything looks pale to that poor tosser."
"She's working too hard."
"You're not to go near Buffy!"
"I just want to be sure she's okay. Jesus, is that too much to ask?"
"Entirely." I folded my arms. "Angel, you seem to be under the impression that the conflict with Wolfram and Hart has earned you some sort of credit in my ledger. Let me disabuse you. You made a perfect ballsup of the thing. And even if you hadn't, even if you were now the serene benefactor of a grateful world, Buffy would still be off limits. We can't have a bloody war over the girl, damn it all. This place isn't big enough."
Angel drew himself up. "Giles, we owe you for getting us out of Hell, but you can't keep ordering us around. Well, you can order Spike around, I couldn't care less about that and he actually seems to like it, but I'm my own man."
"You're a paroled felon and not even remotely a man. And your arse belongs to me, you prat."
Angel took a step into my personal space. I did likewise. My fingers twitched with the desire to encase him in the living rock for a century or so.
"Hi, Mr. Giles!" warbled Andrew from the main passage. He was toting a sheaf or nosegay of violets and several tabloids, and panting with exertion. "Hi, Angel. How's Spike?"
"Mending," replied Angel, once again giving cleverness a brave try.
"How did you hear about Spike?" I asked Andrew.
"Um," said Andrew.
"Why don't you go check on him?" suggested Angel. "I'm sure he'd love to see you."
Andrew beamed and scuttled off.
I thought it as well to follow, for Angel was at hazard in my presence. "Don't think of leaving this place," I told him in parting. "Don't stir. No Buffy."
Angel merely glared.
Spike was drowsing with his head in Illyria's lap when I returned. She had reassumed her customary appearance and was stressing the azure note rather, and combing a stiff hand through Spike's hair.
"I took pity," she said, sounding puzzled. "I made him rest."
Andrew laid the flowers down gently. "That's okay. I can come back later."
Illyria fixed him with her pale gaze. "He is aware of your feelings."
"Oh," gasped Andrew.
Illyria cocked her head. "Why are you disconcerted? Everyone is aware of your feelings."
"Oh. Oh," stammered the poor boy.
"He is touched by your regard. He feels protective of you, and worried, for his heart is given and he is not same-sex oriented."
"Old One," I said, for Andrew looked to be on the verge of sinking into the earth, "Why don't you go guard the other half breed? He's defying me, and I fear I'll do him a mischief if I catch him escaping."
Illyria seemed to find this notion appealing. "Will he defy me as well?"
"Very possibly."
Illyria's eyes glittered. "Excellent."
Andrew tried to slink away as well, but I laid a hand on his arm. "Do stay," I said. "The weary invalid will be glad of your company."
Andrew looked at me with suffering. "I should probably go."
Spike stirred. "S'what I deserve," he mumbled. "Oh, hullo, Andrew."
"Hey, Spike."
"Stopping long?" asked Spike blearily. "Our casa su casa, you know. A Watcher's home is his castle. And the seraphim won't look away."
Andrew sat down companionably. "Sure they will, Spike. Give it time."
Spike smiled. "Been meaning to ask you. I can ask you. Your soul. Do you like it?"
"Better every day."
"Oh, that's good. That's good. I fought for mine, Andrew."
"I know, Spike. I know."
Andrew took up the Sun and began to share aloud. I left them and went to stare at coffins.
Ch. 2
Take it from me: there's really no one quite as accomplished at taking the fizz out of a rebellious vampire as an ex-god. The latter are a marvelous aid, prop and stay, if you have the unenviable job of keeping the former in line.
I surveyed the aftermath of the Angel-Illyria conversation with interest.
Illyria had departed, and Angel lay in a pile of shale and broken stalactites, looking as though he might pass a few peaceful hours that way. I felt I'd learned an important lesson from their encounter, one that promised a future considerably less fraught with care.
You never know what life's going to pitch your way, so I suggest putting this on a sticky pad. Let's say you have a rebellious vampire as a cavernmate. The r. v. gets it up his nose to break parole and rip the fragile detente of your subterranean community to smithereens. You are utterly fed with the obdurate bugger and long to hammer him into the gutrock of the earth with your arcane new powers, but your nagging sense of Gilesean fair play forbids this simple corrective. What to do? Cry havoc and let slip the ex-gods in blue, that's my advice. I can absolutely guarantee results.
"What happened to him?" Spike shuffled in from the wings, stepping with care, I suppose, to avoid opening his gore wound and depositing his insides on the cavern floor. Andrew was trying to support his elbow, and Spike kept shrugging him off every pace or so. Neither seemed inclined to honor the wishes of the other, and their progress was halting, like a pair of crabs tussling halfheartedly far from shore.
"Angel expressed the desire to leave us," I told him. "Apparently Buffy is on the Continent again."
I explained the circs without editing the ugly facts, and Spike snarled. He aimed a lively kick at Angel's head, which Andrew deflected, and then Spike went down in a moaning heap, clutching his side.
"That bastard," panted Spike.
"Spike, take it easy," said Andrew.
"He's got no honor at all," groaned Spike. "Sneaking crawling lying wanker
bastard prat! So much for his word. I'd give my right arm to see her, but do I go breaking my --"
"Let's get you back to the couch," said Andrew hastily.
I felt I'd endured enough theatrics for one day. "Yes, do," I said, kneeling to see if Angel's brains were still in their casing. "And kindly stay there. I have sarcophagi to check, and I don't fancy --"
The wall to our left split with a roar. The concussion scattered us like
ninepins, and for a moment I lost my train of thought. In the haze of dust and falling rock I descried a mantle of flame and a dark figure in the heart of it, shaped like unto a man, but wrapped in choking miasma of dread. I pulled myself upright and cleaned my glasses with the cuff of my robe.
"And who the deuce might you be?" I demanded, my patience utterly at an end. "Can't you knock?"
The fire flickered and died, and from it stepped a youngish bloke with a narrow face, clad in counter-contemporary garb. "You! You dare to ask my name!"
"Very well, let's begin again. What do you mean, bursting in here like the
bloody Fifth Airborne? This is a restricted area, hemmed round with spells of forbidding and off limits to --"
The lad leapt forward and popped me on the nose, smacking me through a pillar of stone.
"Murderer!" he cried. "Fight me!"
I did my best to accommodate this request, and we grappled for a moment or two. Results were unfavorable to the Giles team. He was no giant, but I simply couldn't match his fury -- it's the size of the fight in the dog, as the wiseman says. I took another roundhouse to the jaw, sailed a bit in the footless halls of air, and found myself dangling over the Deeper Well by one hand. My foe stepped to the edge and ground my fingers beneath his boot.
"You slew my brother," he hissed. "Murdered him by deceit, for no man could best him in honest combat! Usurped his kingdom, stole his legacy! But his
realm shall be your grave!" Another dose of boot-grinding accompanied these words, but I held fast, there being no reasonable alternative.
"This is a fitting end," said the lad, drawing a sword. "Your corpse will fall forever, and your wandering spirit shall --"
And then the pressure on my hand was gone. I seized my op, scrambling back up over the crumbling lip of the Well. The sword lay to one side, and Spike sat astride my enemy while Andrew struggled to hold his flailing legs. Spike was talking in a low, rapid voice.
" -- about your brother, really. But you've got it wrong. I was there, and you've got the wrong bloke."
"Liar!" gasped the boy, thrashing.
"No, honest. I met your brother: fine fellah, none better. If I knew who
killed him I'd have the bastard's guts myself. Dammit, kid, calm down. That isn't your man."
The lad went still. "What was his name?" he asked suspiciously. "My brother. What was his name?"
"Drogyn," replied Spike promptly.
"He never spoke his name to a foe," said the boy.
And then it all got extremely matey, just like that. Spike helped the lad up, and Andrew brushed him off. Spike launched into a string of gruff eulogistic praises of Drogyn, and the boy wiped his eyes while Andrew made sympathetic noises about losing brothers. It was a banquet of manly sorrow and compassion.
And it looked to continue a dashed sight too long. I put myself forward and
tried to sort them out.
"I am Adryn," said the boy. "And I beg your pardon, sir. I was overhasty in my wrath."
"Not at all, not at all. A simple mistake, no harm done, it's all in the past. Thanks for stopping by," I said, indicating the hole Adryn had made.
"Still, my quest continues. I must find my brother's murderer."
"Indeed you must. Keep us posted, won't you?" I moved to usher him out.
"My lord," said Adryn, "You can help me. Here in the Deeper Well my brother kept a great talisman, the Eye of Truth. It can reveal secrets to a worthy seeker, if his heart is pure. It can show me the killer. Give me the Eye of Truth, sir, I implore you."
"I haven't seen one of those around, I'm afraid."
"And they don't work anyway," interjected Spike.
"They're totally overrated," said Andrew. "No body uses Eyes anymore."
Adryn's face fell. "I see. Still, I must use what means I have. I shall seek to the ends of the earth. I will consult the oracles."
"Good idea," I said.
"I shall not rest."
"That's the stuff," I said, giving him an light pat of encouragment. "Fare
thee well, and don't forget to write."
Ardryn frowned. "My brother was beloved of many -- especially my uncle Madryth, who recently Ascended and became a primal force of rage and flame. I will appeal to him to return with his court of furies and help me wreck vengeance upon the foul killer. Thank you," he said to Spike. "You saved me from a dreadful error. I am in your debt."
"Forget it," said Spike uneasily.
"I never forget. But for now I must leave you. With a salute, sir," Adryn
said to me, doing it, "As the new Guardian of the Well. Long may you reign. Adieu."
And with that the little bleeder finally took himself off, exiting through the hole -- and not before we were ready.
"Jesus," muttered Spike.
Andrew put his head in his hands.
Angel stirred amidst the rubble and whatnot. He shook his head like a bear
after a bad day in the baiting pen and staggered to his feet.
"What?" he demanded. "What's everybody looking at?"
***
When one is trying to saddle up and blow the Cotswolds in a sharpish manner, a brace of sullen, wounded vampires are a sore impediment. They slow the action to a crawl.
"Drogyn," sighed Angel, tottering heavily from tree to tree.
"Yeah, Drogyn," said Spike, limping beside him. "Good work on that, by the
way, killing a saintly Guardian with lots of murderous magic relatives because -- wait, why'd you do it again?"
"I should stay behind. Let Adryn find me. I killed his brother," said Angel.
"For God's sake, shut up," I snapped, scanning the woods for sight or sound of Andrew. Illyria stalked from behind a tree bole, giving me a bit of a start.
"You left me," she said, casting a cold eye over us all.
"Sorry, Blue. Inspector Javert wouldn't wait."
"Spike, if you have nothing useful to add, be silent. Illyria," I said, "There are deadly matters on foot. We must flee."
"Gods do not flee."
"Exactly my point."
"You too are a god, young one. If there is a threat, remain and defend your kingdom."
"Madam, my primary responsibility is to the half... to these men. Angel is, or soon will be, the target of a blood feud, and is in no condition to defend himself. Spike, as you see, is leaking."
Illyria cocked her head. "The Well is unguarded, then."
"Well, yes. Unfortunately."
"But we put out lots of dry food and left the telly on," said Spike.
"I will remain," announced Illyria. "And keep watch."
It occurred to me that there was a hole in that plan somewhere, but before I could give it any thought the sound of an auto reached us, followed by a pair of yellow headlights bouncing through the trees.
"A taxi?" asked Angel incredulously. "He brought a taxi?"
The vehicle chugged over the grass and wheezed to a halt. Andrew threw open the passenger door. "Hi... sorry about this but I figured --"
"It'll do, Andrew. Spike, get up."
"Chunnel," bleated Andrew, "Or the ferry, maybe..."
I deposited Spike in the rear and turned to Angel. "Move, man."
"Giles, I --"
"Not a word of it. We stick together. Get in."
"Where to?" asked the driver.
"Dover," I replied, ignoring the driver's whistle of surprise. As the engine revved I
remembered Illyria and turned, but she'd already vanished into the silver mist.
"And so for France," murmured Spike emptily as we jolted over the uneven turf.
"Paris, city of love!" exclaimed Andrew. "Can we hide in Paris, Mr. Giles? I -- I know my way around."
"It's a big place," said Angel casually.
Spike twisted to glare at him. "Oh, you're a fan of Paris now, are you? Since when?"
"What's your problem, Spike?" asked Angel.
"Quiet, all of you. I need to think." I lay back with a hand over my eyes, listened to the chug of the engine, and considered another line of work.
TBC
Just in case, I wrote my contact info and stuck it on the carrier (twice, I'm nothing if not spazzy :) with the request to call me if anything went wrong with placement. I did manage to round up two possible adopters at a party last night, and today the roof guy mentioned he might be interested, too. So I have plans B, C, and D, if it comes to that.
Reposting the first two chapters of Clustering Round Young Buffy, because I didn't put it in memories the first time, and can't figre how to do it from an archived post. I need to stop being so lazy -- it's a hassle. Working on ch. 3.
This is a weightless story, I know, but I've been unable to write for a while -- got all hung up on needing stuff to be perfect and meaningful and jazz. Which cut my output down to zero, of course. So I thought I'd try to relax and, you know, not take fanfic so horribly seriously. Thanks for your patience with this foolish thing.
*****
Clustering Round Young Buffy
Giles, Spike, Angel
Post NFA, sequel to A Proper Funeral
*****
If some charitable soul had taken me aside just prior to my spasm of heroic volunteerism in Hell, by which means I delivered Spike and Angel from eternal chokey, and told me I'd rue and repent of it with bitter sorrow, I'd have laughed. I'd have snapped my fingers, shot my cuffs, and uttered a devil-may-care "Oh, really?" because that's what we Gileses do when facing the ultimate sacrifice. House Giles is constructed of famously sturdy planking, and I am by no means the least of its sons, though I say it myself. When faced with an opportunity to do a good turn by a pal, steel cables can't hold a Giles back. We leap. We bound. We tarry not to count the cost. It's just the way we are.
And a jolly stupid trait it is, too. It's all very well to get a couple of bumbling souled vampires off a hook of their own idiotic making, if you can do it without a great deal of paperwork, but signing on for an unending spell as a supernatural babysitter isn't something I can recommend. The fascination passes, so to speak. The sameness begins to wear. One misses the old mortality, the bustle of daily life, doorbells and sleighbells and whiskers on kittens. I was exiled from these simple joys, and as the long summer turned to autumn in the world above, I was feeling the strain of my noble gesture. Footling about in a whacking great hollow tree staring at coffins is no Mardi Gras, I can tell you, and the certain knowledge that kings and kingdoms would all pass away and I'd still be stuck in a hole in the ground doing it had me feeling distinctly blue.
"This weakness is unworthy," observed Illyria, bobbing up at the nine o'clock postion as welcome as ever, which was not very. "And perilous. Embrace your immortality with fortitude, stripling."
"Later, perhaps," I sighed.
"I have seen too many newborn gods go mad. Do not force me to discipline you."
"Madam," I inquired testily, "Haven't you somewhere to be?"
"The half breeds are overdue. I miss the diversion they provide with their incessant squabbling."
"It's good that you can," I observed, listlessly toeing a pebble into the abyss.
"Open your senses," counseled Illyria. "Reach out with your strength. Feel the pulse of the lesser forms teeming in the soil, in the air, in the seas. Let the flare of their brief lives and sufferings refresh you. Rise into the stars and burn with them as is your right, and fill this dim plane with your incandescence."
"I have a smashing idea: why don't you?"
It was an unsporting jab, but I was more than a little cranky.
"I shall, soon enough," glowered Illyria. "Daily my strength waxes. In a moment, as such things are measured, I shall return to my true stature. And then, let the universe tremble!"
"Yes, yes, to be sure."
"Do not try me," she growled. "I am not so reduced as you think."
A distant scrabbling above informed me that Spike and Angel were without, at the enchanted portal of my liegehold of mystery and darkness, and had once again forgotten their keys.
"They are late," said Illyria. "But they bear honorable wounds."
"Don't they always? Clumsy berks."
"Oi! Sun's coming!" came the faint Spikean cry.
"Giles!" barked Angel.
I waved my hand and the cavernous ceiling split sufficiently to drop two vampires in an untidy tangle at our feet. They failed to bounce, adding gall to my already bitter cup.
"Oof," said Angel.
"Ow," said Spike, after an unsuccessful attempt to rise. "Morning, Majesty. Morning, Your Watcherly Holiness. A little help?"
I gave him a reluctant assist. "Good Lord, Spike. What happened to you this time?"
"Gored."
"Gored?"
"Gored by a mad cow," explained Angel, taking Spike's other arm. "But we stopped a virulent plague, so it's all good."
"And she was delicious," grunted Spike.
"Spike's going to be laid up for a while," said Angel.
"Good show," I said, as we manhandled the bleeder down a side tunnel to the parlor. Illyria stalked and scowled in our wake, which was her way of exhibiting solicitude for injured pets. "Well done, as per your usual, Spike. And now we'll have to chain you up and watch for brain fungus, I suppose."
"Do you think we'll be able to tell?" asked Angel, with the unpredictable wit that so enlivened my days.
"Now, Watcher. Don't go chaining me up again. I can't stand those bleeding chains."
"You should have thought of that first." We dumped Spike next to the ancient hand-crank Victrola, and much tiresome groaning ensued. Angel reached for Spike's crimson shirt. Spike batted his hands away.
"Lemme alone. Ow! Giles, get him off me."
"Shut up. Quit moving." Angel surveyed the damage with a low whistle. "Gotta hand it to you, Spike, when you get your guts torn out by a mad cow, you don't do it half way. Giles, we may need a bit of miraculous healing here."
"No! No miracles!" hissed Spike. "They make my soul burn for a week."
I felt Spike had earned a soul-burning miracle or two, but I was trying to cut down on inflicting my mighty will on subordinates. "I suppose it's needles and fishing line, then."
"Aw, fuck," moaned Spike.
"I shall do it," said Illyria. "Spike welcomes pain at my hands, and his arousal will mitigate the --"
"I say, what happened to the Gidderach Demon?" I asked hastily.
"We kinda had to shelve the Gidderach, Giles, with all the cows going mad." Angel shrugged. "I'll go back and clean up tomorrow night."
Spike began to thrash a bit. "Not without me, you won't. Giles, the ponce is trying to sneak off and stalk Buffy again. Giles!"
"Settle down, sweetie," said Illyria, suddenly brunette and decently clad. She was threading a darning needle under Spike's alarmed gaze and giving him a perky grin. "Hold still, now. This will go faster if you don't fight me."
Spike sighed and shut his eyes. "Right, then. Bash away."
"Unless you want to me to drag it out, like a reward," suggested Illyria.
"Please stop doing Fred, Highness. You're wrecking it for me," complained Spike.
Angel looked suitably revolted. "Giles, can I have a word?"
With no reluctance whatsoever I left Spike and Illyria and joined Angel in the corridor.
"Giles, what do you say to me hitting the Continent, after I take care of the Gidderach?"
I assessed him. "I'd say that Spike has called it, with the perceptivity that occasionally makes me suspect him of intelligence. You have a stalking gleam in your eye. No Buffy, Angel. None."
"It's got nothing to do with Buffy. Much."
"The word is no, Angel. We all have an agreement here, and have sworn the oaths of gentlemen. Buffy lives her life now, free of all unnecessary complications and care, and we sod about in magic trees. That's the way of it."
"I'm worried, Giles. Wesley said she's looking pale."
"Everything looks pale to that poor tosser."
"She's working too hard."
"You're not to go near Buffy!"
"I just want to be sure she's okay. Jesus, is that too much to ask?"
"Entirely." I folded my arms. "Angel, you seem to be under the impression that the conflict with Wolfram and Hart has earned you some sort of credit in my ledger. Let me disabuse you. You made a perfect ballsup of the thing. And even if you hadn't, even if you were now the serene benefactor of a grateful world, Buffy would still be off limits. We can't have a bloody war over the girl, damn it all. This place isn't big enough."
Angel drew himself up. "Giles, we owe you for getting us out of Hell, but you can't keep ordering us around. Well, you can order Spike around, I couldn't care less about that and he actually seems to like it, but I'm my own man."
"You're a paroled felon and not even remotely a man. And your arse belongs to me, you prat."
Angel took a step into my personal space. I did likewise. My fingers twitched with the desire to encase him in the living rock for a century or so.
"Hi, Mr. Giles!" warbled Andrew from the main passage. He was toting a sheaf or nosegay of violets and several tabloids, and panting with exertion. "Hi, Angel. How's Spike?"
"Mending," replied Angel, once again giving cleverness a brave try.
"How did you hear about Spike?" I asked Andrew.
"Um," said Andrew.
"Why don't you go check on him?" suggested Angel. "I'm sure he'd love to see you."
Andrew beamed and scuttled off.
I thought it as well to follow, for Angel was at hazard in my presence. "Don't think of leaving this place," I told him in parting. "Don't stir. No Buffy."
Angel merely glared.
Spike was drowsing with his head in Illyria's lap when I returned. She had reassumed her customary appearance and was stressing the azure note rather, and combing a stiff hand through Spike's hair.
"I took pity," she said, sounding puzzled. "I made him rest."
Andrew laid the flowers down gently. "That's okay. I can come back later."
Illyria fixed him with her pale gaze. "He is aware of your feelings."
"Oh," gasped Andrew.
Illyria cocked her head. "Why are you disconcerted? Everyone is aware of your feelings."
"Oh. Oh," stammered the poor boy.
"He is touched by your regard. He feels protective of you, and worried, for his heart is given and he is not same-sex oriented."
"Old One," I said, for Andrew looked to be on the verge of sinking into the earth, "Why don't you go guard the other half breed? He's defying me, and I fear I'll do him a mischief if I catch him escaping."
Illyria seemed to find this notion appealing. "Will he defy me as well?"
"Very possibly."
Illyria's eyes glittered. "Excellent."
Andrew tried to slink away as well, but I laid a hand on his arm. "Do stay," I said. "The weary invalid will be glad of your company."
Andrew looked at me with suffering. "I should probably go."
Spike stirred. "S'what I deserve," he mumbled. "Oh, hullo, Andrew."
"Hey, Spike."
"Stopping long?" asked Spike blearily. "Our casa su casa, you know. A Watcher's home is his castle. And the seraphim won't look away."
Andrew sat down companionably. "Sure they will, Spike. Give it time."
Spike smiled. "Been meaning to ask you. I can ask you. Your soul. Do you like it?"
"Better every day."
"Oh, that's good. That's good. I fought for mine, Andrew."
"I know, Spike. I know."
Andrew took up the Sun and began to share aloud. I left them and went to stare at coffins.
Ch. 2
Take it from me: there's really no one quite as accomplished at taking the fizz out of a rebellious vampire as an ex-god. The latter are a marvelous aid, prop and stay, if you have the unenviable job of keeping the former in line.
I surveyed the aftermath of the Angel-Illyria conversation with interest.
Illyria had departed, and Angel lay in a pile of shale and broken stalactites, looking as though he might pass a few peaceful hours that way. I felt I'd learned an important lesson from their encounter, one that promised a future considerably less fraught with care.
You never know what life's going to pitch your way, so I suggest putting this on a sticky pad. Let's say you have a rebellious vampire as a cavernmate. The r. v. gets it up his nose to break parole and rip the fragile detente of your subterranean community to smithereens. You are utterly fed with the obdurate bugger and long to hammer him into the gutrock of the earth with your arcane new powers, but your nagging sense of Gilesean fair play forbids this simple corrective. What to do? Cry havoc and let slip the ex-gods in blue, that's my advice. I can absolutely guarantee results.
"What happened to him?" Spike shuffled in from the wings, stepping with care, I suppose, to avoid opening his gore wound and depositing his insides on the cavern floor. Andrew was trying to support his elbow, and Spike kept shrugging him off every pace or so. Neither seemed inclined to honor the wishes of the other, and their progress was halting, like a pair of crabs tussling halfheartedly far from shore.
"Angel expressed the desire to leave us," I told him. "Apparently Buffy is on the Continent again."
I explained the circs without editing the ugly facts, and Spike snarled. He aimed a lively kick at Angel's head, which Andrew deflected, and then Spike went down in a moaning heap, clutching his side.
"That bastard," panted Spike.
"Spike, take it easy," said Andrew.
"He's got no honor at all," groaned Spike. "Sneaking crawling lying wanker
bastard prat! So much for his word. I'd give my right arm to see her, but do I go breaking my --"
"Let's get you back to the couch," said Andrew hastily.
I felt I'd endured enough theatrics for one day. "Yes, do," I said, kneeling to see if Angel's brains were still in their casing. "And kindly stay there. I have sarcophagi to check, and I don't fancy --"
The wall to our left split with a roar. The concussion scattered us like
ninepins, and for a moment I lost my train of thought. In the haze of dust and falling rock I descried a mantle of flame and a dark figure in the heart of it, shaped like unto a man, but wrapped in choking miasma of dread. I pulled myself upright and cleaned my glasses with the cuff of my robe.
"And who the deuce might you be?" I demanded, my patience utterly at an end. "Can't you knock?"
The fire flickered and died, and from it stepped a youngish bloke with a narrow face, clad in counter-contemporary garb. "You! You dare to ask my name!"
"Very well, let's begin again. What do you mean, bursting in here like the
bloody Fifth Airborne? This is a restricted area, hemmed round with spells of forbidding and off limits to --"
The lad leapt forward and popped me on the nose, smacking me through a pillar of stone.
"Murderer!" he cried. "Fight me!"
I did my best to accommodate this request, and we grappled for a moment or two. Results were unfavorable to the Giles team. He was no giant, but I simply couldn't match his fury -- it's the size of the fight in the dog, as the wiseman says. I took another roundhouse to the jaw, sailed a bit in the footless halls of air, and found myself dangling over the Deeper Well by one hand. My foe stepped to the edge and ground my fingers beneath his boot.
"You slew my brother," he hissed. "Murdered him by deceit, for no man could best him in honest combat! Usurped his kingdom, stole his legacy! But his
realm shall be your grave!" Another dose of boot-grinding accompanied these words, but I held fast, there being no reasonable alternative.
"This is a fitting end," said the lad, drawing a sword. "Your corpse will fall forever, and your wandering spirit shall --"
And then the pressure on my hand was gone. I seized my op, scrambling back up over the crumbling lip of the Well. The sword lay to one side, and Spike sat astride my enemy while Andrew struggled to hold his flailing legs. Spike was talking in a low, rapid voice.
" -- about your brother, really. But you've got it wrong. I was there, and you've got the wrong bloke."
"Liar!" gasped the boy, thrashing.
"No, honest. I met your brother: fine fellah, none better. If I knew who
killed him I'd have the bastard's guts myself. Dammit, kid, calm down. That isn't your man."
The lad went still. "What was his name?" he asked suspiciously. "My brother. What was his name?"
"Drogyn," replied Spike promptly.
"He never spoke his name to a foe," said the boy.
And then it all got extremely matey, just like that. Spike helped the lad up, and Andrew brushed him off. Spike launched into a string of gruff eulogistic praises of Drogyn, and the boy wiped his eyes while Andrew made sympathetic noises about losing brothers. It was a banquet of manly sorrow and compassion.
And it looked to continue a dashed sight too long. I put myself forward and
tried to sort them out.
"I am Adryn," said the boy. "And I beg your pardon, sir. I was overhasty in my wrath."
"Not at all, not at all. A simple mistake, no harm done, it's all in the past. Thanks for stopping by," I said, indicating the hole Adryn had made.
"Still, my quest continues. I must find my brother's murderer."
"Indeed you must. Keep us posted, won't you?" I moved to usher him out.
"My lord," said Adryn, "You can help me. Here in the Deeper Well my brother kept a great talisman, the Eye of Truth. It can reveal secrets to a worthy seeker, if his heart is pure. It can show me the killer. Give me the Eye of Truth, sir, I implore you."
"I haven't seen one of those around, I'm afraid."
"And they don't work anyway," interjected Spike.
"They're totally overrated," said Andrew. "No body uses Eyes anymore."
Adryn's face fell. "I see. Still, I must use what means I have. I shall seek to the ends of the earth. I will consult the oracles."
"Good idea," I said.
"I shall not rest."
"That's the stuff," I said, giving him an light pat of encouragment. "Fare
thee well, and don't forget to write."
Ardryn frowned. "My brother was beloved of many -- especially my uncle Madryth, who recently Ascended and became a primal force of rage and flame. I will appeal to him to return with his court of furies and help me wreck vengeance upon the foul killer. Thank you," he said to Spike. "You saved me from a dreadful error. I am in your debt."
"Forget it," said Spike uneasily.
"I never forget. But for now I must leave you. With a salute, sir," Adryn
said to me, doing it, "As the new Guardian of the Well. Long may you reign. Adieu."
And with that the little bleeder finally took himself off, exiting through the hole -- and not before we were ready.
"Jesus," muttered Spike.
Andrew put his head in his hands.
Angel stirred amidst the rubble and whatnot. He shook his head like a bear
after a bad day in the baiting pen and staggered to his feet.
"What?" he demanded. "What's everybody looking at?"
***
When one is trying to saddle up and blow the Cotswolds in a sharpish manner, a brace of sullen, wounded vampires are a sore impediment. They slow the action to a crawl.
"Drogyn," sighed Angel, tottering heavily from tree to tree.
"Yeah, Drogyn," said Spike, limping beside him. "Good work on that, by the
way, killing a saintly Guardian with lots of murderous magic relatives because -- wait, why'd you do it again?"
"I should stay behind. Let Adryn find me. I killed his brother," said Angel.
"For God's sake, shut up," I snapped, scanning the woods for sight or sound of Andrew. Illyria stalked from behind a tree bole, giving me a bit of a start.
"You left me," she said, casting a cold eye over us all.
"Sorry, Blue. Inspector Javert wouldn't wait."
"Spike, if you have nothing useful to add, be silent. Illyria," I said, "There are deadly matters on foot. We must flee."
"Gods do not flee."
"Exactly my point."
"You too are a god, young one. If there is a threat, remain and defend your kingdom."
"Madam, my primary responsibility is to the half... to these men. Angel is, or soon will be, the target of a blood feud, and is in no condition to defend himself. Spike, as you see, is leaking."
Illyria cocked her head. "The Well is unguarded, then."
"Well, yes. Unfortunately."
"But we put out lots of dry food and left the telly on," said Spike.
"I will remain," announced Illyria. "And keep watch."
It occurred to me that there was a hole in that plan somewhere, but before I could give it any thought the sound of an auto reached us, followed by a pair of yellow headlights bouncing through the trees.
"A taxi?" asked Angel incredulously. "He brought a taxi?"
The vehicle chugged over the grass and wheezed to a halt. Andrew threw open the passenger door. "Hi... sorry about this but I figured --"
"It'll do, Andrew. Spike, get up."
"Chunnel," bleated Andrew, "Or the ferry, maybe..."
I deposited Spike in the rear and turned to Angel. "Move, man."
"Giles, I --"
"Not a word of it. We stick together. Get in."
"Where to?" asked the driver.
"Dover," I replied, ignoring the driver's whistle of surprise. As the engine revved I
remembered Illyria and turned, but she'd already vanished into the silver mist.
"And so for France," murmured Spike emptily as we jolted over the uneven turf.
"Paris, city of love!" exclaimed Andrew. "Can we hide in Paris, Mr. Giles? I -- I know my way around."
"It's a big place," said Angel casually.
Spike twisted to glare at him. "Oh, you're a fan of Paris now, are you? Since when?"
"What's your problem, Spike?" asked Angel.
"Quiet, all of you. I need to think." I lay back with a hand over my eyes, listened to the chug of the engine, and considered another line of work.
TBC
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Question: Where is "A Proper Funeral" to be found? I've somehow missed it and I want to read every wry, snarky word (and any other fictional words) that you write. Please advise.
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"The word is no, Angel. We all have an agreement here, and have sworn the oaths of gentlemen. Buffy lives her life now, free of all unnecessary complications and care, and we sod about in magic trees. That's the way of it."
No Wodehouse character could have said it better!
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Glad to hear the bifocal sitch is better, too. I'm right on the cusp right now -- optometrist dude says my next pair of glasses will be bifocals. By the time I get them I think I'll be eager enough.
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And as long as you're careful not to step on them, making it impossible to realign them properly, so that you seem to be viewing the world through a particuarly nasty funhouse mirror!